Page 56 of The Puck Contract

I take a deep breath and face the class. "Good morning. Today I'll be presenting my research on spatial semiotics and community resistance through urban gardening initiatives in Chicago's South Side."

Just as I'm about to launch into my introduction, the door at the back of the room opens quietly. Every head turns tosee Ansel Williams—professional hockey player, six-foot-two of morning sunshine in human form—attempting to sneak in like he isn't the most conspicuous person on campus.

"Sorry I'm late," he whispers (though in the silent classroom, he might as well have shouted). "Traffic."

Dr. Winters blinks rapidly behind her glasses, clearly recognizing him despite the fact that he's dressed down in jeans and a simple gray henley that does criminal things for his shoulders. "That's... quite alright. Please, take a seat."

Groover slides into an empty chair in the back row, giving me a small wave and a smile that's somehow both apologetic and encouraging. My heart does an Olympic-level gymnastics routine in my chest.

He came. He actually came.

"Mr. Rossi?" Dr. Winters prompts. "Your presentation?"

Right. The presentation. The reason we're all here at this ungodly hour. I drag my gaze away from Groover and back to my slides.

"As I was saying..." I restart, voice steadier now. "Urban spaces function as texts through which marginalized communities articulate resistance to dominant power structures..."

Once I get going, the nerves fade to background static. I fall into the rhythm of my research, explaining how community gardens in underserved neighborhoods represent both practical food sovereignty and symbolic reclamation of space. I gesture to maps and photographs, quote theorists, and even manage a joke about Foucault that gets a genuine laugh from three people (a record for anthropology humor).

Throughout the presentation, I find my eyes repeatedly drifting to Groover. Each time, he's watching me with complete attention, nodding at key points like what I'm saying is actually fascinating rather than academic jargon. Once, when I stumble over a complicated theoretical framework, he gives me a subtle thumbs up that somehow steadies me instantly.

By the time I reach my conclusion, I'm actually enjoying myself. "...and so, through these seemingly simple acts of cultivation, communities transform neglected spaces into sites of resistance, identity formation, and cultural sustainability. Thank you."

The applause is polite but genuine. Dr. Winters steps forward, adjusting her glasses with that particular movement that signals she's about to deliver a critical assessment. I brace myself.

"Mr. Rossi," she begins, "your thesis defense demonstrates significant potential, but you need stronger offensive strategies to capitalize on your theoretical framework."

I blink, thrown by the unusual phrasing.

"Your methodology section was solid, a real power play of qualitative analysis," she continues, warming to her theme. "But your literature review was caught in the neutral zone, neither advancing the argument nor providing defensive depth."

Is she... is she using hockey metaphors?

"In your final paper, I expect you to take more shots on goal with your original analysis. Don't just pass the puck around established theorists." She gestures emphatically. "And your conclusion needs to avoid the penalty box of oversimplification."

From the back of the room, I hear a distinctive cough that sounds suspiciously like suppressed laughter. I don't dare look at Groover, afraid I'll lose my composure entirely.

"Overall," Dr. Winters concludes, "a B-plus effort with playoff potential. Questions from the class?"

Several hands go up, and I field questions about methodology and theoretical frameworks. Throughout the Q&A, Dr. Winters continues her sports commentary, telling one student his question was "skating on thin intellectual ice" and praising another for "going top shelf with that theoretical contradiction."

When the session finally ends, Dr. Winters dismisses the class but makes a beeline for the back row where Groover is gathering his things.

"Mr. Williams," she says, extending her hand. "I'm Dr. Eleanor Winters. I must say, it's not often we have professional athletes attend our humble anthropology seminars."

Groover shakes her hand, all charm and politeness. "Please call me Ansel. Or Groover, most people do. It's fascinating stuff. Mateo's been teaching me about anthropology."

"Has he now?" Dr. Winters looks practically giddy, a complete departure from her usual stern academic demeanor. "Well, I've been following your career with interest. That hat trick against Boston last season was particularly impressive."

I stand frozen by the projector, watching my sixty-year-old professor, who once spent a forty-five minute lecture railing against the commercialization of education, chatting animatedly with Groover about zone defense strategies.

"Dr. Winters," I interrupt, desperate to extract Groover before she invites him to guest lecture. "I need to disconnect my laptop..."

"Oh, of course, of course." She turns back to Groover. "Perhaps you'd consider speaking to my Sports and Society seminar sometime? The cultural dynamics of professional athletics would make a fascinating case study."

"I'd be happy to," Groover agrees, because apparently he's physically incapable of saying no to academic requests. "Just have Mateo coordinate with my schedule."

Aisha appears at my side as I pack up, her eyes fixed on Groover with undisguised interest. "So that's the boyfriend," she says in a stage whisper that's probably audible in the next building. "You've been holding out on us, Mateo. The Instagram pictures don't do him justice."

---